Whispers Of The Lady-Wolf
by CaptainClo
Summary: Vignettes capturing moments of Sansa Stark's life so far. Comforting moments, sad moments, important moments, not-so important moments, and moments that gain significance only in hindsight.
1. Fool's Fortune

"NOW this is the law of the jungle, as old and as true as the sky,  
And the wolf that shall keep it may prosper, but the wolf that shall break it must die.

As the creeper that girdles the tree trunk, the law runneth forward and back;  
For the strength of the pack is the wolf, and the strength of the wolf is the pack."

\- The Law Of The Jungle, Rudyard Kipling

* * *

 _Wind was rushing through the leaves. It made the canopy babble, like a river blanketing the world in an underwater haven. Everything smelled cold and damp and the moon was casting everything in a white light. This was what peace was; silent, calm and cool. Looking up at the inky black sky awash with navy blue, the stars winked at her. Just for her. Safe. Sitting down to clean her paws, she noticed that patches of pale skin flashed in stark contrast to the darkness of her pelt. Clumps of fur were falling out in front of her. The sky began to lighten at an alarming pace; birds shrieking at the sudden promise of dawn. The wind had disappeared and a mugginess was closing in on the comfortability of her resting place. A burst of gold and red flooded the sky as the sun materialised overhead. Too hot, too hot, it was just too hot. She heard a twig snap beneath a heavy weight, closer to her ears than what was real, warning her._

 _They were coming. The sound of multiple soft paws breaking through the underbrush was carrying on the wind, and they were getting closer. She had to run. She had to get away from them. She had to hide. Adrenaline flooded her system, sprinting as quickly as she could to get away from the sounds. Yet as soon as she reached a hellish pace, they were there, right behind her, snapping and snarling and nipping at her heels. She tore through sharp sticks and stinging leaves - panic flooding everything in stark shades of white. The red of the sky had begun to bleed into the leaves of the trees and if she had taken a moment to listen, she might have heard them screaming. But she was out of time, there was just no more time. An opening in the forest was approaching fast; the sounds of the ocean beckoning her approach. Hope. There was still hope. Such an intense rush of giddy faith lightened her head that she tumbled over what - in hindsight - had been a book. This was it. They were right on top of her, all she had to do_  
 _was_  
 _turn_  
 _around._

 _Against her will, the world around her warped and twisted so that the snarling shadows stood afore her, judging her with their sinister eyes._

 _Familiar eyes._  
 _Her family's eyes._  
 _Forced into the faces of snarling direwolves._  
 _There was an older, golden alpha male with her father's eyes, and a maroon female flanking his left - that one had her mother's eyes. She didn't have to count the number of younger wolves making up the rest of the pack for she knew there would be five. With wet eyes and dripping fangs, they leapt upon her, ripping into her flesh, paying no mind to her blood curdling cries. The pain was overwhelming as the world swam in hues of red and gold._

Sansa Stark woke up screaming.


	2. Violets Twined Around Your Young Neck

The moon was so large and vivid tonight that Sansa felt like if she reached out just a little she could run her fingers over its rocky surface. Everything in the castle that wasn't cast in deep blue shadow was illuminated in cold white. The frozen faces of statues, rounded pillars and sharp corners, all glowing from the touch of the moon. It might have frightened her if it didn't remind her so much of home. The moon was the same all over the Known World, and that would never change. Sometimes, back home when she hadn't been able to sleep, she had snuck into her parents' room and awoken her father. He would fetch a large warm blanket made of wolves fur, wrap it around both their bodies and lead her to the roof of Winterfell's highest tower. There they would stand in silence under the sparkling sky until sleep beckoned and her father would carry her back to her room. But sometimes, usually when the moon was especially swollen and full, he would tell her how every Stark that had ever been had looked upon that moon, and her children would look upon it when the time came.

"You look so like your mother," he would say after these stories, "but you are more Stark than you think." He would then lightly touch her cheek or rest his hand on her head. It had been so comforting. That was all years ago now. So long ago it seemed like a very vivid dream. Even in the few years before coming to Kings Landing, Sansa had distanced herself from her family. Arya had always been everyone's favourite; confident, rebellious, annoying Arya. Oh, how she had angered Sansa so! What she wouldn't give for Arya to step on the train of her dress or throw a freshly baked roll at her face now. Then there was the ever-charming Robb; it wasn't just their similar colouring that had made their relationship so understanding, it was...perhaps it was being in the position of eldest boy and girl that had made them so alike? Whenever everyone else became unbearable, Robb had been there as a gentle reminder of all the good traits in both her House and the North. Even her half-brother; she would give almost anything to have Jon walk around the corner, snow melting in his dark hair, and pay her one of his rare smiles. She hadn't talked to Jon much - her mother's cool behaviour towards him had always made Sansa feel like talking to him was taboo. How stupid. He was one of her only living connections to the past now. For the thousandth time, Sansa wondered where in the Known World the rest of her family could be, and for the hundredth time, she wondered if they too were looking upon the moon, just as she was at that moment. She hoped they were.

Sansa was suddenly profoundly glad of her room's position. It was situated in a secluded wing near the Maidenvault, used only for women of great importance (even though she was nothing more than a prisoner) so it was silent enough for privacy and busy enough to lull herself into some sense of security. The hallways formed a square, encompassing a courtyard garden on all four sides; but being four stories up it had the advantage of scenic views. The hallway doubled as a balcony of sorts, to peer down at the goings-on of Kings Landing's most poisonous snakes and deadliest spies at work, but also afforded a good view to see if Margaery was in her room, situated in the opposite open corridor. It was getting quite late, but Margaery's bedroom door was ajar just enough to let a crack of warm light spill into the hallway. A fire could be heard crackling from the inside, even from this distance, which reminded Sansa that she had a warm room to return to where she could barricade the door and sleep for as long as possible. Before having the chance to turn back to her own room, a shadow passed by the opposite room's doorway which nudged the door open an inch or two more. The inch or two had given way to a view of the room's eastern facing window, looking out onto the Narrow Sea towards the general direction of Pentos. A chilly sea wind was blowing through the windows making the curtains flutter lazily through the air. Some of the breeze flew it's way through the crack in the door and made it's way to Sansa's face. It was remarkably refreshing, the feel of the wind on her cheek. The night was especially humid and oppressive - even for Kings Landing - and the rare whispers of wind did wonders to ease her anxiety.

The shadow had returned, only now it was quite obviously the back of Lady Margaery Tyrell. She had made her way over to the window in order to reap the benefits of the night's crisp air. It looked quite striking; russet waves of hair sweeping down over the green silk robe she had wrapped around her body. Sansa's blood froze as Margaery turned around, but the other woman's mind was too focused on feeling the wind at her back to see Sansa, dazed and hovering near a column across the way. Sansa had not realised how thin the robe was when Margaery's back had faced towards her, but now…

The silk draped across her body like water, the neckline dipping dangerously low on her chest and the bottom slit reaching dangerously high up her thigh. The light from multiple candles made Margaery's face look like a maester's painting, and every inch of her body was cast in soft warmth and shadow. Following the natural line from her face downwards, Sansa's eyes suddenly rested upon Margaery's chest; the silk just looked so smooth, resting itself upon the swell of her body. And the opening was so low and so wide that even from this distance, Sansa could see the slight change in skin colour as milky white changed into a darker blushing shade... something rose inside of Sansa's chest when she saw the result of what the rare chill was doing to Margaery's breasts. Sansa had never before seen another woman's chest, and the feeling she was developing from seeing even the hint of one made her feel suddenly feverish. As if the Gods wanted to further Sansa's embarrassment, the sleeve of Margaery's robe slid further down her arm as she leaned forward slightly, candlelight reflecting the lines of her collarbone, eyes still closed from savouring the breeze. Somewhere in the back of Sansa's mind, she could see how silly she looked; her mouth parted in a little 'o', eyes wide as saucers, but she couldn't seem to bring up the nerve to care what she looked like as she began to feel a little faint. Tearing her eyes away from the room, Sansa attempted to slow her breathing. A shock went through her when she felt a presence on the floor, and was pleasantly surprised when she saw that a cat had made itself at home at her feet. Looking up at her with lemony yellow eyes, Sansa felt swayed by the cats innocent features; it looked so adorable with it's tiny black nose. Purring softly, it rubbed it's fluffy cheeks across Sansa's shins.

That was the moment the cat decided to let out the most alarmingly loud meow in the history of Westeros (probably). The clang of swords, the explosion of cannons; all shrunk in comparison to this creature's random caterwaul that rippled through the hallways, echoing through the emptiness.

A split second of silence passed between Sansa and the daemon-cat before Sansa dropped to her hands and knees onto the cold stone ground. The cat continued to look at her with content and careless eyes as she crawled the few steps back to her room and shut the door as silently as possible. Placing her back against the door, Sansa could feel her whole face flush red with shame. Stewing in her humiliation, she stayed seated in silence for a few minutes before making her way towards her bed.

"Stupid, stupid, stupid Sansa…" hopping into bed, she threw the covers over her whole body, "…stupid, perverted, naïve Sansa," she continued to grumble.

Sansa mulled over what in the Seven Hells had just happened as exhaustion overtook her. She prayed that Margaery hadn't seen her before falling into a restless slumber filled with dreams of yellow eyes in fields of roses.


	3. Jonquils Wrapped in Ivy

"I know not what to do, my mind is divided"

― Sappho

* * *

The gardens of the palace were so

…

brown.

The recent heat wave had led every last bush and plant in the Red Keep to a fast demise. Little bits of green peeked through some shrubbery, yet it wasn't enough to look past the exhaustion of every living thing surrounding it. The past week had brought with it a heat so extreme that some commoners had apparently perished from it, just like the once-prized flower gardens in the Red Keep's main courtyard. That fact didn't hurt as much as it should. After all, some things were worse than death. Yet everything died just the same. Except for the roses. They didn't seem to mind the harsh environment and were in full bloom, growing more beautiful each day with death as their fertiliser. They looked as if they had been picked out of a folk tale from one of the books back home.

…back home…

an ache echoed in Sansa's chest. The roses were so lush and rich in colour - with an aroma that painted a picture of another time; a more romantic time. Planted so close to the ocean, Sansa found the rose division of the gardens was the perfect place to wander and get lost in ones thoughts. Not that her thoughts were a nice place to be most of the time. Which was why most of her time alone was spent in prayer. To the Crone for guidance and the Warrior for courage. To the Smith for strength and the Stranger for understanding. Sansa didn't feel comfortable praying to the Father Above, so she prayed to her own father instead. Praying had always brought her comfort in times of sadness, but after so much cruelty…a line had been crossed that Sansa had not known to exist. Praying seemed like a burdensome habit now, that brought with it only the smallest amount of misplaced solace. It was like shouting into a cave; her echoes the only ray of hope in the darkness. But echoes are just replicas of oneself, warped and false and weak attempts at mirroring the truth. That's all prayer was to her now; an echo.

Having not paid much attention to where her feet were taking her, Sansa realised she was meandering the footpath to her favourite fountain. The centrepiece of the small courtyard fountain was of a handsome marble knight, sword by his side, surrounded by marble flowers. Water fell from a jug in his right hand into the basin below, where it would then continue its journey back into the jug over and over again, an eternal tribute for whatever or whoever the knight had fought for. It was one of the only places in all of the Red Keep where she could truly feel alone. The constant bodyguards the Lannister's had 'protecting' her seemed to only leave her alone in the gardens. They were always waiting at the exits and entrances anyway, and the only true escape was over a massive wall into the deep and unforgiving ocean below. No, Sansa would not be escaping anywhere whilst in the gardens, so the Lannister's and their armoured pets must feel at ease letting her naive mind and weak body stroll 'freely' through the glorified cage. Sansa could hear the calm whooshing of water which heralded the small alcove where her knight would be waiting. Turning the sharp, labyrinthian corner into the small nook, Sansa froze on the spot.

There was the fountain, surrounded by bushes that were now dead from the heat. There was her knight, gaze turned upward as he toasted no-one. And there, lounging upon the small marble bench surrounding the fountain, was a striking figure. Chestnut waves falling onto a bare back could only mean that Sansa Stark had just happened upon Lady Margaery Tyrell.

Glancing left and right, Sansa planned her route of escape. Lady Tyrell seemed like a nice enough person, but Sansa had been fooled by first impressions before. That amidst the fact that exactly three nights ago, Sansa had leered grossly into Lady Tyrell's private chambers as she was preparing for bed. It was much safer, therefore, to not allow the Lady to see her. The only way out of the alcove was a path on the opposite side of the fountain, which was out of the question as it was right in Lady Tyrell's line of sight. She could always go back the way she came, but light footsteps and the low hum of conversation seemed to be making it's way along the pathway behind Sansa, eradicating that as a potential exit way as well.

"I simply despise what these people call gardens."

If Lady Margaery Tyrell wasn't the only other person in the courtyard, Sansa would have sworn she was hearing voices. The auburn-haired Lady had not turned around and was continuing to glide her hand through the cool basin water. Sansa did not know what to do…should she agree? Would agreeing mean she was disloyal to the Crown? But disagreeing with the future Queen could also be dangerous. Sansa found herself, as she so often did, between a rock and a hard place. And instead of doing something - doing anything - she did what she had learned to do. She stayed silent.

Lady Tyrell probably sensed Sansa's unease, as she turned her gaze away from the fountain.

"I don't believe we have been properly introduced," the Lady rose and glided over to Sansa so elegantly and with a smile so bright it immediately made Sansa feel on edge. "Of course, we already know one another by reputation, but I shall introduce myself all the same. I am Lady Margaery, of the House Tyrell."

The Lady curtsied so smoothly that Sansa had to remind herself to return the deed.

"I am Lady Sansa, of House —" pausing mid-curtsy, the sudden tightness in her chest made it impossible to finish the sentence.

"Yes. Yes, of course."

The warmth in Lady Margaery's smile unveiled a touch of pity, but not the degrading kind that made Sansa feel like a starving dog on the streets of Flea Bottom. In the Lady's eyes, there was something that looked like genuine sympathy.

A trick of the light, Sansa thought. Compassion and kindness did not belong here. They belonged somewhere else. Somewhere North.

"My Gods! You must know this, but your beauty is quite…breathtaking. The tales and whispers do not pay you justice, Lady Sansa," Lady Tyrell stepped closer, looking deeply into Sansa's eyes in a way that wasn't negative but not entirely comforting either, and lowered her voice, "but that sadness, my dear. The sadness betrays you."

Sansa felt hot under Lady Margaery's examination. Of course I am sad, she wanted to scream, why wouldn't I be sad!? I have been beaten, broken, berated and abused - I am a shadow of who I used to be and everywhere I turn there are bars, caging me in this torment. Of course I am sad!

But, of course, she said nothing.

Yet, almost as if Lady Margaery had read her mind, she said - in a most matter-of-fact way, "And you have every right to be. Come, walk with me!"

And with a sudden linking of arms - and a quick prayer to the Gods - Sansa found herself walking out of the small alcove with the Queen-to-Be, Lady Tyrell.


	4. No Relief In Open Eyes

Sansa was in a wonderful mood at the morning meal. She had arisen early that morn - at earliest birdcall - in order to properly prepare. Lacing her lips with lemon to make them a juicy red, and pinching her cheeks to attain a healthy glow. She had employed many of the little tricks her mother had taught her. After all, she had to make a flawless first impression. After dressing in her finest green gown with embroidered red flowers on the sleeves (red was the colour of the Royal family, after all) she had descended to the Great Hall to break her fast.

Prince Joffrey and the rest of the Baratheon's had not come down to dine. They were no doubt still sleeping after their long and arduous journey. The welcoming feast the night before had gone on for quite some time. Sansa knew she would feel tired too, if she wasn't so excited. She was not saddened by the lacking presence of her betrothed, however, as she knew that he would appear eventually. Perhaps they could share a brief conversation, Sansa thought. He may even kiss her upon the hand, if the Gods be good - which Sansa knew they were. The birds had sung especially sweetly that morning when Sansa had awoken. Almost as if in celebration of the royal family coming to Winterfell. As if heralding the blooming romance between herself and His Highness.

Sitting down at the family dining table, she could see their future wedding ceremony so clearly in her head. His Majesty would wear a dashing red that would bring out the blue of his eyes. He would look so gallant in red, gold and white. Sansa's wedding dress would be red, gold and white also - the colours of her new House. The ceremony would take place in the Great Sept at King's Landing. Hundreds of Lords and Ladies would look on as Sansa and Joffrey would swear their love before the Seven. She would be made his in front of the whole world - his wife _and_ his Queen. Sansa Baratheon. Sansa Baratheon. Sansa Baratheon. King Joffrey Baratheon and _his_ Queen Sansa Baratheon. Nibbling on a piece of toasted bread, her heart trembled with happiness. She was so at peace imagining her future bliss before she felt something hard splatter onto the side of her face. Shocked silent, she could hear Arya laughing evilly from across the table as a few hearty chuckles from her brothers joined in. The porridge had already begun to harden and go cold. It had splattered not only onto her hair, but onto her beautiful emerald gown.

After yelling at Arya - trying not to cry from the anguish and unfairness of it all - she had retreated to her room to bathe and change. She did not mind bathing. Arya hated it because she was a dirty and wild thing. Sansa, on the other hand, loved the feeling of the warm water cleansing her skin. The natural springs Winterfell was built on top of made the water the perfect temperature. Just hot enough to warm the bones. In the North, on very special occasions, it was tradition to bathe with half a cup of milk, a swirl of honey, and a stick of cinnamon. Sansa would have much preferred two cups of milk, one cup of honey, and a bushel of cinnamon. But Father was ridiculously frugal. He probably thought she was spoilt. But cows and goats would make more milk, and bees would make more honey. Whereas Sansa could only make one impression on her beloved, the Prince. It was almost as if her father did not understand the importance of true love. But Sansa was a good girl, and always made do with what she had.

Getting out of the copper bathing tub and towelling dry, she put on her second-best dress. A linen gown in a pale cornflower blue. Then, taking a seat at her dressing table, she began the beautification process all over again. Getting a slice of lemon from the finger bowl on her dresser, she brushed it upon her lips. Her nose crinkled at the tart taste. She had attained a natural blush after her warm bath, but she pinched her cheeks just the same. Then, picking up her favourite comb - the one engraved with a scene of horses running through the forest - she combed and combed her hair until the deep auburn shone as brightly as a copper penny. She would have much preferred her hair to be golden, like the pretty maidens in songs. But looking at herself in the mirror, Sansa decided that she had done a pretty good job. Especially as she had only been assaulted with hot porridge not one hour past.

As she was staring at her reflection, a wet nose nuzzled her hand. Sansa had forgotten that her direwolf had been waiting for her. Lady was always so gentle and quiet. The perfect companion.

"Come on, Lady. Let's go for a walk."

—

Winterfell had never been so busy. It was wonderful. In all her life, Sansa had never seen so many people. Knights and soldiers and ladies in gowns. It was extremely exciting. Yet people seemed to be giving her a wide berth. At first she thought the droves of people were staring at her. But she reminded herself that most Southerners would have never laid eyes on a direwolf before. Lady was the smallest of her pack and only just past pup-hood, yet she was already a little larger than the average hound. They were staring at gentle Lady, that was all. Stopping for a moment, Sansa knelt down and scratched Lady behind the ears. Her warm yellow eyes watched a few people pass by before settling on Sansa.

It was odd how, at times, Sansa could swear she knew what Lady was thinking of. Like how at that moment, an image of rolling in freshly cut grass with Ghost flashed in her mind. It was so vivid. All the direwolves were fond of one another - they were family, after all - yet Ghost was such a lonesome creature. He was much like Jon in that respect. But Ghost did seem to have a soft spot for Lady, nuzzling up against her at family meals and sleeping by her when he got the chance. And if what Sansa had just seen wasn't simply an overactive imagination, Lady liked Ghost too. It was sweet.

Standing up, Sansa took a moment to gain her bearings. Looking around, she grinned at the bustling nature of everyone. There were people everywhere - rushing by in fancy clothes. Some were carrying beautiful cloth or swords or foreign-smelling delights. As Sansa led Lady through another opening in the woods, she saw three Southern ladies sitting in a circle. They were huddled very close near a burgundy caravan, gossiping and plaiting each others hair. How desperately Sansa wanted to be one of them. They styled each others' hair so intricately it looked like woven silk. And they were all so perfectly blonde it made the red locks framing her face look unkempt and dirty in comparison. They all looked at her as she began to pass, no doubt judging her scruffy appearance. Her pale-blue dress looked like a potato sack next to their heavily embroidered silk gowns. Yet they smiled at her. Sweet, gentle smiles. Sansa was captivated by their shiny hair, their long eyelashes, their glossy lips…oh, how she wanted them.

A returning smile began to shyly tug at the corners of Sansa's lips, when a sudden form appeared in front of her. She jumped a little at the shock. Recognising chainmail underneath a leather vest, and a sword swinging from his side, Sansa realised that she had bumped into a grisly older knight. And he was looking at her quite severely. Even though he must not have been a great knight (as he was so old and haggard looking) a true lady never forgets her manners.

"Pardon me, Sir —" her attempt at a remorseful smile did nothing to soften the old man's irritated glare.

"— I wasn't looking where I was going," her face felt warm as she remembered the women not a few yards away who must be watching the exchange, "I didn't mean to, I'm terribly sorry."

Yet, still, she was met with complete silence. The man's gaze was unnerving, and she did not understand why he would not respond.

A hand came upon her shoulder and shocked her out of her thoughts. Swinging around, Sansa looked up into the face of another knight. He was very tall, which is a quality most knights must possess in order to be handsome and heroic and strong. But as his head blocked out the sun, Sansa realised he was not handsome at all. The right side of his face was burned so terribly that Sansa began to feel a touch off colour. The injury must have been old, for it was quite a light pink. Yet it looked like the man's face had been made of wax and held too close to an open flame. Mangled and shiny and horrible. Not like the faces of knights Sansa had read about. No, this man was no proper knight, Sansa was sure of it.

"Do I frighten you so much, girl?" the scarred-knight asked, "Or is it him there that's making you shake?" he asked, nodding towards the silent-knight.

Sansa did not answer.

"He frightens me too, look at that face!"

The disfigured-knight smirked at the aged-knight. The older man looked as if he were about to burst with ire. Yet, still, he did not speak a sound. Perhaps Sansa had not been polite enough. After all, colliding with and staring at an elderly knight was not refined at all. Sansa realised how truly offensive she must have been.

"I'm sorry if I offended you, Sir," Sansa said gently, bowing her head.

Still, the man said nothing - choosing instead to stalk back up the road, heading in the direction of one of the Baratheon encampments.

Sansa looked back at the tall-knight.

"Why won't he speak to me?"

"He hasn't been very talkative these last twenty years. Since the Mad King had his tongue ripped out with hot pincers."

Shocked, Sansa's mouth fell open. No true lady would have let their mouths hang in such a manner. It made the face look unseemly. But Sansa was young, and what the knight had just told her was…it was horrible. Truly horrible. A tongue ripped out with boiling hot pincers. Her skin began to crawl, and she began to feel cold. But all thoughts of the ghastly Mad King and horrid punishments flew from her mind as quickly as they had come as she saw her beloved stride up beside her. His hair glinted in the sun like gold. His eyes shone a brilliant blue and they were looking right at her as he granted her a most dashing smile.

"Speaks damn well with his sword though. His name's Sir Ilyn Payne, also known as The King's Justice," Sir Joffrey said wisely.

The King's Justice? Sansa had never heard that term before. But it must be a noble profession if it had anything to do with her sweet and genteel Joffrey.

"The Royal Executioner," Prince Joffrey explained.

A door opened in her mind, and images came barging through. Thoughts of Mad Kings and punishments and poverty and pain flooded into her imagination. They pierced through the warm day surrounding her, making her feel cold again.

"What is it, sweet lady?" Prince Joffrey asked her.

"Does The Hound frighten you? Away with you, dog. You're scaring my lady."

His lady. The disturbing thoughts stopped and faded into the mist. The sun shone brighter than ever before, and she could feel her face warm. His eyes - the colour of sapphires - were focusing on her, only her. He had called her his lady. And he had sidled up closer to her.

"I don't like to see you upset," he said softly, a kind and intimate smile brightening his flawless features. He cupped her chin gently, and she nearly swooned. And then he had asked her to walk with him.

—

The walk was going absolutely perfectly.

His Highness Prince Joffrey spoke of his home, mainly - describing in detail the luxuriousness of the Red Keep. It sounded grand, unlike anything she had ever seen before. He had offered Sansa numerous sips of wine as he spoke of how the small folk loved his family, the power he would have as king, and how much he loved animals. He had even complimented her hair, which made Sansa positively beam with delight. The day was warm, yet not too unbearable. A beautiful breeze was coming off the river they were strolling by. She had read by a river just like it as a child, and she could remember watching Robb and Jon as they playfully sparred with sticks by it. Swallows gracefully swooped and played amongst the trees surrounding Sansa and Joffrey. It was all so perfect that she wanted to squeal. But, of course, she didn't, as that would be unladylike around her prince.

Joffrey took another sip from his wineskin and offered her some more.

"I don't think I would be allowed any more - Father only lets us have one cup at feasts," she murmured.

"My princess can drink as much as she wants," he replied.

There it was again. _His_ princess. She was his, as he was hers. And not-soon-enough it would be sealed until death with a kiss. She would bear his children, and they would be called Joffrey II, Harlon, Edwynn, Lyonel, and Steffon Baratheon. Five boys, all as blonde, blue-eyed, and handsome as their father. Sansa slowly took the wineskin from the prince…from her prince…and took another sip. He smiled at her and she could see as clear as dawn how perfect he would look on their wedding day. He would never become fat and old like his father. He was much more like his beautiful mother - elegant and refined. Oh how Sansa wished that they could marry right then and there, in the perfect midday sun next to the riverbank. But then the sounds of fighting came from over the small rise ahead of them, and Sansa startled at the aggressive interference.

"Don't worry. You're safe with me," Joffrey said, grabbing Sansa by the hand and walking on. His hands were as soft as hers, not rough and calloused like her father's. Of course she was safe with her prince. He was strong and kind. He would let nothing harm her.

When they had discovered that the sounds had been Arya and the butcher-boy play-fighting with sticks and little swords, Sansa was not surprised. Of course Arya was making a ferocious fool out of herself. Disappointment and anger engulfed her. Honestly, it was like no-one in her family understood the importance of first impressions.

Prince Joffrey began to berate them a little. Sansa sighed. Why couldn't Arya be a normal girl and want normal girly things? She didn't even look like she cared about embarrassing Sansa in front of the prince. She stood there looking how she always looked - angry. Averting her eyes from her sister, Sansa stared at the fat butcher boy as his face began to contort horribly. It wasn't nice to watch, but her prince was teaching the silly little butcher boy a lesson. A butcher boy could never be a knight, just as girls could never be knights. There were rules, that was all - and her beloved knew that too. Yet she suddenly felt as if things were spiralling out of control. Everything was happening so quickly, until Joffrey had kicked the boy down into a kneeling position and his sword was at the butcher boy's neck. The sharp silver began to dig deeper, droplets of blood slowly running down the boy's thick neck as his face began to look more and more familiar…

"NO," Sansa shrieked, "my sweet prince, please, I beg of you - do not harm him!"

The butcher boy had - in front of her very own eyes - shifted forms. She did not know how, or why, but he had looked at her with the same eyes as her father. His body then had morphed around him until the butcher boy was gone, and in his place her father stared at her, helplessly. Kneeling in a field, in the middle of nowhere, with Joffrey's sword cutting at his neck.

Joffrey snorted.

"This is what happens to traitors. This is the same dirty blood that runs in your veins. This, darling Sansa, is what happens to people who think they can fool me."

And with a smile, he raised the sword so high that for one moment it shone as if it were made of pure sunlight… and he drove it down upon her father's neck.


End file.
